Addendum
by Frakme
Summary: Inspired by the BBC Sherlock but set in the ACD era. Oneshot. JohnLock. No smut but reference to a sexual relationship. Dr Watson writes about the personal relationship he shares with Sherlock Holmes


**A/N I decided to write a small vignette sort of in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (though it sounds more Jane Austen to me!). Just a little one shot, experimenting in a different style.**

**Thanks to Belen09 for her helpful comments.**

Dear Reader, as you are well aware, I have made it my duty to record the doings of my companion Sherlock Holmes, to record them for posterity, so those not of his acquaintance can see the genius that has been my privilege to share every day I have known this great man.

But here in this addendum I will tell of another side of our lives together, a more intimate recollection of the way our acquaintance grew from two men simply sharing an abode for convenience, to helpmates, to ones whose hearts are irrevocably entwined.

He is not the easiest man to get to know, he is demanding, self-righteous, capricious and contemptuous of his fellow man. Yet he is also insightful, energetic and has a cerebral beauty that captivated me from nearly the first moment I observed him in action.

He did not have many friends, though he had a wide range of contacts, in the police and amongst the street rats that plague London. The police tolerated him barely, reluctantly relying on his powerful intellect to solve those crimes that have them confounded. I can say without reservation that I was, I am, the closest person in the world to him.

When we first met, it seemed apparent that many pleasures of the flesh he considered to be beneath him, apart from an unfortunate habit of the consumption of opium and the occasional pipe of tobacco, a favourite indulgence of mine. He told me such physical indulgences were simply a distraction to the mind. He barely slept or ate, resulting in a lean, sallow figure which still held an attraction for me and I am certain I was not the only one to observe that he presented a dashing figure. Though to no avail; no other turned his head, though an interesting mind may capture his attention for a time, he found most people banal and women were never of any consequence. Yet I sensed a loneliness in him that reached out to me and I was not undesirous to fulfil that empty space within the great heart I knew he kept hidden.

In my youth, I had indulged in carnal pleasures of the flesh, with women, as well as with men of my acquaintance at medical college and in the army, though I had never felt but the briefest urge to settle with a wife and family. Twice I indulged such urges, both ended in widowerhood for me, yet despite having the love and loyalty of a good sort of woman, there was never a completeness in either of my marriages. Something had been missing and it wasn't the lack of children.

Going back to live at Baker Street, with my constant companion, Holmes, I knew what I should've known from the very beginning; that it was he who could fill that lack.

I came to acknowledge that it was he who made my blood quicken with adventure and mystery, who opened my eyes to the secrets that others tried to hide. He who eventually I welcomed into my bed, when the post-case euphoria overcame us and spilled into physical passion, driven by a near encounter with death. We discovered a secret love that encompassed our hearts, minds and bodies, yet it was a love we had to hide as it was condemned as 'unnatural' and 'sinful'. We two would've been condemned as Sodomites and punished accordingly had others known about the secret delights we shared when we two were alone in the darkness of our bedchamber. But we knew then, as we do now, we could not give it up, despite the fear of discovery. We two were meant for each other and no other.

Even now, in the twilight of our lives, our love is still secret and unfailing, yet transcendent. He still quickens me and I, him; though not as frequently as in our callow youth. Though we are old, grey and suffering from the maladies of old age, I still look at him and see his beauty, which for me will never fade. His clear, changeable eyes, orbs that see things other do not. His mobile, expressive mouth that could cut a man to the quick with vitriol sharper than a butcher's knife, yet to me speaks of tenderness even while he decries my many follies. His carriage, which parts crowds, draws all eyes to his height and lack of breadth as he strides through the city he knows so well, he could traverse it blindfolded.

I wonder at times, what he sees in me, short and broad, lacking his grace and economy of motion, a dull sort of fellow who struggles to keep up with either his mind or body. Yet many a time, in privacy, he will tell me how invaluable I am to him he is, as his anchor and his heart.

I know he thrives on my unstinting praise of him, as a child thrives on its mother's milk. In a world that so easily mocks his unconventionality, I bolster his ego and act as his sounding board.

And if I may be so bold as to shock you with matters of the bedchamber, I have always prided myself on my experience of physical intimacy, an area in which my dearest Sherlock was completely naïve and I was the master. He proved, as in all things, an adept pupil and my own ego was stoked as the pupil soon surpassed the teacher. Naturally, given his great enthusiasm for the scientific method, he approached our physical relations with great curiosity, analysing and cataloguing our reactions and pleasures in that great mind of his.

If he were to read this now, I fear he would scoff at my sentimentality. Then I would remind him, as I am wont to do, that sentimentality does have its usefulness, as I have proven upon many occasion. Again, as he has done before, he will remind me of the gifts we grant each other.

"Dearest John," he will say. "I give you the gift of reason and you give me the gift of sentiment. Each gift has equal value; they make us complete."


End file.
